savetheearth | 002 — audio. [iphone]

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002 — audio. [iphone]

[ What first rips across the audio post is deafening silence. Fitting, as it's late—not terribly so, but enough that all smart people were either currently sleeping, or otherwise cramming for finals, in most of his acquaintances' cases. But this particular silence is tense, and smothering, and dark. As if it's currently awaiting something that's never going to happen. In realization of this, a slow, shaky exhale reveals the presence on the other line, stirring the otherwise quiet post to life. A whip of sheets, footsteps, the flick of a light switch.

A quiet mumble, if only to himself:

Just once?

Whatever Banagher was hoping to capture via audio, or prove the existence of, he's missed his chance. So instead, he brings his phone up to a proper speaking distance. ]

Hey, those werewolves. The ones from the Dead District, a few weeks ago. They... they're all supposed to be gone, right? There's howling, somewhere outside. Or, a howl. I only heard it once, but there was no mistaking it, it wasn't normal.

[ Distantly, a the tinny echo of another voice joins him, distinctly mechanical: Banagher! Didn't hear anything, didn't hear anything! A dream? ]

I heard it, Haro! It wasn't some dream!

[ A heavy sigh, to blanket the nervousness. ]

And it wasn't only the howling, either.

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[ Oh, the burden of choices. Casval knew that burden, once. But Casval had made his choice, now, made it for good, for better or for much, much worse. There is no path to follow, other than the one that lies straight ahead; nothing to worry over, other than the precious few he still counted among his friends. Everything and everyone else was irrelevant, disposable, gutter trash, like the rats he's taking potshots at while Banagher scurries along the streets the same as one.

I will find my answers, by any means necessary.

Gone are the proud colors of red, white, and yellow around his shoulders, replaced by only black. Even his hair is restrained, tied back by a dark ribbon. This was not the Casval Mass that had entered Banagher's home, this was the Casval Mass that had left it, and this is the Casval Mass that Banagher stands to confront now.

And when he gets close, that Casval Mass greets him in an icy tone, cold as the wind whipping the ponytail around his drained face. ]

You know it's a school night, don't you, Banagher Links? [ A barbed call from the rooftop, a house or two over. Casval grits the smoking stick harder between his teeth, its flared end bright in the otherwise murky shadows. ] How careless of you.

[ It doesn't suit him, Banagher thinks. He stops dead in his tracks, Casval's voice pinning him in place as well as bullets might, as well as needles to the thin wings of a butterfly. A little incensed, a little confused, a little frightened, now subject to the severity of his voice where there had once been warmth, even if it had been a rootless kind. Unearthed, rather than nurtured.

All the color, too, gone. It unnerves him, the lack of brightness, the lack of red, and gold, the fact that he has to struggle to see him when he could have been able to, even a mile off. He knows why, and yet it's still absolutely unfathomable to him. ]

I'm the one being careless? [ Well, yeah, he is. But perhaps that was the power of faith. ] It's a miracle no one's seen you yet and called the police!

[ Banagher takes a halting step forward. ]

...Can't you come down from there?

[ It's a little exciting, that rush of terror that runs through Banagher's veins. He feels it as keenly as if it were his own, though he couldn't be further from terrified at the moment. Only empty, only predatory, scanning in the distance for any signs of trouble though he knows there will be none.

Hearing Banagher question him, boggled, bewildered, draws Casval's attention back to the boy. The way he blinks is almost sluggish, the shift of his fingers almost lazy around the sleek shaft of the rifle while he contemplates rather than answer directly. ]

They're pretty disgusting things, actually. Cigarettes. [ Another few good puffs of smoke, an even brighter glow from the cigarette. ] But I can't drink, up here. Can barely match 'em sober as a judge, let alone with a shot or two in me. Heh.

[ The rambling is somewhat incoherent, but Casval must've been paying some degree of attention, as he comes sliding off the roof seconds later. Tossing empty shells behind him, flicking the worn tail of the cigarette away from his mouth, striding towards Banagher. ]

Who'd be daft enough to call the police? [ With a snort: ] Bloody good they'd do. The wolves're more sport than they are, I'd have their heads off before they could even bumble their way out of HQ.

[ Banagher shifts back instinctively once on a level playing field, eyeing the gun at Casval's side with no secret amount of distaste. Even if it was for his sake... he just couldn't compromise the ill feeling about it. Something that riles him unkindly, terribly, resisting in all of his nerves. Gaze sliding back up to his face, his brows knit. Less out of anger, like always, and more out of discernment.

Like always. ]

Sport? Casval, they're tied to one another already, aren't they? The police, and whoever's behind this... besides! Not everyone is going to know about what's happening to us. Anyone could have gotten involved if they heard something like that.

[ Innocent people, maybe. ]

And you shouldn't be taking risks like this on your own anyway, not so soon after— [ Briefly his eyes flicker over the jagged scars racing across his chin, sufficing where words didn't. ] ...everything.

[ Still, a straight answer is something he's come to not expect, and his expression softens. ]

Does your accent always do that?

[ Does your accent always do that?

Somehow, out of everything that Banagher's said—mostly through one ear, out the other—that manages to stick. To pull him free from insanity's hold. It's so silly and meaningless and stupid but it still works, still resounds with that little piece of piano music he'd reserved for the boy, leaving Casval's cheeks red and his eyes clear. Blue, bright, beautiful in absence of ugly inclinations. As they should be. ]

D... don't make fun of me, like that. That's not how you should treat adults.

[ His fingers hesitate a bit longer before separating the two joined halves of the rifle, stashing them back inside the coat. As if it had never existed at all. His nose turns up to the starry sky, gaze shifting from that terrifying sheen to a comparatively innocent curiosity. ]

Hey, Banagher. [ Quietly, tentatively, focusing on a single star above his head: ] When your "abilities" are active—when Newtype runs through your mind, and the world bows down, suppressed. How does it feel? Inside your chest, inside your heart?

[ Just as it flees Casval, it drains from Banagher too, winding down out of his tense posture. The absence of hysteria is kind to his eyes, Banagher can't help but notice—thoughtful and cloudless and healthy. Anxiety over what he knows will not last touches on him, so very briefly... visible sadness for it, when he wishes it would stay.

He's about to apologize, when Casval's question captures him mid-thought. ]

How? Well... [ How many times has he tried to put it into words, only to come up short? Inadequate? Pale? He stuffs his hands in his pockets quietly. ] It doesn't feel like the world bows, or anything like that. Thinking of it as being suppressed doesn't sound right at all.

[ He raises his eyes skyward with clarity, pure intent. ] It expands.

[ Looking up like this, it was easy to never want to look down. The vastness of the sky, of each twinkling pinpoint of faraway light splashed on that backdrop like precious jewels, could consume anyone with the lingering feeling of being so very small. Insignificant in the face of such a limitless field. But his ability, the power of a Newtype, it floods his veins with warmth, makes him want to reach out to the things that would seem impossible and drag his fingertips across them just to know the pulse underneath. Even if it was that of the stars themselves. ]

Everything unfolds right in front of me. Thoughts, and feelings, what people try to suppress themselves, even if it's the whole world. Sometimes I think when you look at people, at everyone all around you, it can be like looking straight up like this. As much as you try, it's impossible to know what those stars are really like. We don't immediately understand them, even when we're curious about them, and learn more and more about them everyday. They can burn, or turn out hostile, or be too empty for us to want to attempt to reach them. They can make us scared, or think we're really inconsequential, when we aren't.

[ Also like other people. ]

But this power... doesn't make me afraid to want to try.

[ To reach. Bridge. Need. Give as much as he wants. ]

I am.

[ Afraid, that is, and he just says it, point blank, no reservations, no shuffling around the topic or beating about the bush. I'm afraid, I'm scared, and it says so all over his expression fast sinking into quiet humiliation. Casval Mass, the fearless captain who faced down monsters beyond imagining, beyond the most terrible of nightmares, was terrified of something he couldn't even see.

Casval reaches up to the ribbon in his hair, flickering in the night's breeze, pulls it away as means of distraction and reserves his despaired gaze for the stars instead of Banagher. ]

I feel like a weapon. A tool. Something... not human. [ He tries not to shudder. It doesn't work. ] But maybe it's just what I'm used to, already. Firing guns, shooting at shadows. Killing. Maybe it's all I'll ever be good at.

[ Casval dares a glance down at the ribbon in his palm, cheeks tinted for an entirely different reason now—shame. ]

The connection is different for me. I feel like I'm sinking and I don't know where else to go, when it pulls me under. Everything prickles and I don't know what to do. [ Pausing, a sudden awareness striking him. ] ...sorry. It's probably unfair to burden you with that. This too, really.

So fight it. That feeling.

[ Banagher's gaze has finally found its way back down to Earth, where it belongs, and he's looking at Casval evenly, without remorse, without judgment. Glossing over his apology as if a need to acknowledge it would only cause their foundations to crumble further. Though he has no idea what it's like to bear such a weight on his shoulders, such an immense crossroads at which every turn lurks uncertainty over his mere existence, Banagher knows one thing for certain.

Casval was the only other one like him. Losing him to something like this wasn't an option. ]

Don't surrender, or let it take you under. It... doesn't feel like you, and—

[ And? ]

You won't have to fight it alone.

[ You're not alone.

Casval glances at him long and hard, for that. They're pretty words, beautiful words, but he more than anyone knows how easy they are to fire off meaninglessly, to sway crowds, temper enemies and bolster allies. And yet, as always, all he senses from Banagher is the truth. It's as if the boy can't even lie at all, so earnest it's almost painful, shining so brightly in what is so very dark that Casval is nearly blinded by it. ]

I've been fighting all my life.

[ It's said with a sad smile, and not elaborated upon, as Casval tilts his chin towards the heavens. Concealed though they may be by the starry night, he knows they are still there. Staring like he can will a sign from them, a means of guidance, anything to show him the way. But perhaps...

Perhaps the star he's looking for isn't in the sky.

Perhaps it's standing right beside him. ]

Banagher, what is it you wish for? [ A soft statement, if no less abrupt. Jarring, in its depth and insistence. ] The one thing you desire most of all... what is it?

[ Maybe you've been fighting all the wrong things.

Though he hadn't shied from the gaze in the moment, he is rendered momentarily silent as a result. The sentiment simply drifts from him, aimless. Unspoken. Doubt now laps away at him, corroding all that brightness, dulling it down to sleepy normalcy. Even when it distresses him, thinking something like that—thinking that Casval has spent his whole life in a fight, without reprieve, or chance, or hope.

Banagher's shoulders slope a little, gaze softening.

He really doesn't know how to lie. ]

I don't know.

[ Casval shakes his head, steps forward to rest his hands on Banagher's shoulders. It has always been apparent that Casval Mass was a powerful man, but now he's redirecting that strength outward, if channeled in an infinitely more positive way. A nudge at his weary mind, a mental propping up even if Casval is the one falling apart at the seams. Strength that is so very nearly tangible, it is easy to see why he could mow down others with such ease. ]

I won't accept that sort of answer from you, Mr. Links. [ He's graduated from boy to young adult, a high honor coming from the Captain. ] You're too young and too full of promise to muddle about in gray areas. In neutrality. So, I want you to think long and hard about it, and tell me once you've found the answer for yourself.

Because when you do, I'll help you get there. I promise.

[ I'll fight for you, even as I destroy myself. ]

[ It's almost difficult to be in the presence of such a power. Difficult to meet his eyes bearing down on him, though faithfully, Banagher does so anyway. Not out of any kind of confidence of his own, stripped down to its essence, but just because he felt it was right to do. This strength is the kind that turns volatile, given time, even when ready to heed him in this moment. Chaotic, despite its alliance. Resolve could only act as a tourniquet for so long, but... ]

I don't know enough about myself. [ Though he doesn't even so much as utter the last word, it hangs heavily in the air, frozen:

Anymore. ]

To say just anything, when you ask a question like that.

[ If anything, it only proves that everything he'd said up until then was God's honest truth. Every last word like a pact he probably doesn't deserve to try to make. When he's fearing and yet unafraid, spilling the recesses of his heart both quiet and turbulent alike at Casval's feet. ]

That's why I want to talk to you. ...About everything I remember.

[ And stop running from it. ]

[ Ultimately, that is why Casval admires Banagher. Because he stands so strong in the face of what could be, should be, so often is a hurricane; not out of bravery, but rather a lack of it, simply a willingness to continue onward, take a risk in spite of that fear for just a chance at seeing a brighter tomorrow.

It's not a brighter tomorrow that is destined for him, Casval knows, but a tomorrow that Banagher deserves, and a tomorrow he will expend all his energies upon delivering. ]

That's quite alright, Banagher. One of the privileges of being a man is admitting when you don't know something.

[ He hears the unvoiced promise, I won't run, and it must penetrate some cold layer, that veneer that separates him from a true Newtype and not simply a knockoff weapon. Because he smiles, and in that moment he can see what Banagher spoke of earlier—thoughts and feelings that make you not afraid to try.

He smiles and lifts his hand to Banagher's hair, recalls how his mother once ruffled it with a glowing fondness and melts into the gesture. The memory filters through, and Casval allows Banagher to catch it, if he so chooses. A little piece of humanity left over. A little piece from the piano room. ]

Your kindness will be the death of you someday. But I'm sure you'll say something like "that's just too sad", so never mind an old soldier's pessimism.

[ Perhaps more fitting words then either of them have yet to realize.

Casval brushes past Banagher, the worn down heels of his boots click, click, clicking down the asphalt as his voice carries, fading, fading with more and more distance put between them. ]

Run back home. It's a school night. Don't let me catch you out this late again, or I'll be telling your mother.

[ Despite the sharpness of his tone, the ping back to his mind is gentle, relaxed:

"I'll call for you again, soon. Don't worry."

"I'll tell you what I know then... because you are someone important who deserves that much." ]

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002 — audio. [iphone]

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